A Single Stone by Meg McKinlay Read Free Book Online Page B

from the table and began making her way through the crowd of people that thronged nearby.
    “Will you sit for a while?” Calla gestured at the fire pit in the centre of the Square. Low benches ringed its perimeter; later, people would gather there with their meals, talking and celebrating deep into the night. The rough flagstones nearby were burnished by the firelight, glowing with a warmth that made them seem almost alive. Orange fingers of flame reached skywards; some spiralled into smoke while others curled back upon themselves, collapsing into embers.
    The sight sent Jena’s hand instinctively to her chest, but then she relaxed. The mica was well away, safe in the Stores. It was another irony of life in the valley that the substance they relied on for warmth could not be exposed to fire; it must be struck but never lit. Set alight, mica would burn itself out rapidly, uselessly. A single stray spark could see the harvest wasted.
    “Jena?”
    She shook her head. “They’ll be waiting at home.”
    Calla glanced at Jena’s plate and then back to the table. “It’s so strange seeing Petria. I can’t believe she’s thickening. She looks the same to me.”
    “You can’t always tell. The Mothers wouldn’t pull her without reason.”
    “Of course.” Calla paused. “She said she might learn to mill grain. Can you imagine?”
    Jena couldn’t imagine anything but the tunnels, though she supposed she must eventually. No matter how careful you were, you could not keep nature at bay forever. The thickening would come to all of them one day and while for some it was hardly noticeable, even a small change was enough to put the line at risk. When the Mothers found your numbers moving upwards in that telltale way, they would pull you from the line and relax the regimen – no more wrapping, no more need to count every mouthful. It would not be long then before you began to bleed, and to think of your own daughters – more use to the village as a mama than a tunneller once the thickening set in.
    “I wonder how they’ll manage over winter.” Calla plucked a string bean from her plate and began to chew one end slowly.
    “They’ll be all right,” Jena reassured her. Though Petria had left the line, she had tunnelled three seasons. When making the Wintering allocation, the Mothers would consider that, along with the hope of future daughters.
    On the other side of the Square, Petria ladled scoop after scoop from the pot.
    “Maybe she’ll become a Mother,” Calla said with a half-smile.
    Jena did not reply. It was the mountain that would decide and yet they both knew Petria would never be a Mother. It was the heaviest of responsibilities they bore – for allocations, for the harvest, for everything on which the survival of the village rested. A Mother must be close to the mountain so it might speak through her; no girl who had tunnelled fewer than six seasons had ever been chosen.
    “How about the new one? Will you keep her?”
    “Yes.” The firmness of her own reply caught Jena by surprise. “She’ll do well.”
    “Have you told her? I can do it if you want.” Calla turned to scan the crowd.
    “It’s all right. I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”
    It was a pleasant thought. The news that a girl had been accepted into the line was always welcome, but would be more so this time.
A sixth child. A first daughter.
It would mean a lot to have a tunneller in such a family.
    They said goodnight and Jena made her way to the edge of the Square. Occasionally, someone caught her eye and murmured, “Congratulations!” or “It is a day.” But most people were gathered by the table, waiting for their chance at a plate. It was understood that tunnellers were served first; after that, a rambling queue had formed. No one wanted to be on the end of it, mouth watering for meat while only yams remained.
    Jena was almost clear of the Square when she felt a hand on her arm. A low voice muttered something indistinct.
    “Thanks